


head full of lightning

by myconstant



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Telepathic Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-23 16:54:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10723410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myconstant/pseuds/myconstant
Summary: There’s probably either a real scientific reason to explain why he’s got Raúl's voice stuck in his head so often these days, or something so batshit that he shouldn’t even try to process it. Guti puts his money on the latter.





	head full of lightning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ourseparatedcities](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ourseparatedcities/gifts).



> biiiig thanks to cantilever for the beta and to the mods for organizing

  
  
  
  


The start isn’t much of a start. Even though he's left Madrid and sleeping has gotten easier, it's during one of those blurry _why the fuck am I awake?_ moments in the early morning after a late night out that everything sort of tilts. Or balances.

Something in the back of his head echoes, the beginning of some new kind of hangover for old footballers who have been at it for too long. There’s also something else that's not immediately noticeable: a weird sense of proximity, of sharing space that wasn’t there before. He rolls across the bed to the empty side, half-expecting to find the warmth of a body there, and falls back asleep before he can fully wake up to remember any of it.  
  
  
  
  
Guti stumbles out of bed a few hours later with something like a headache except without the pain. It follows him through breakfast and meds, through training and more meds, a sort of static that hovers at the base of his skull and refuses to leave.

He gets back home late in the afternoon and drops onto the couch without bothering to take off his shoes. Reaches for his laptop and clicks around until he finds what he’s looking for and then turns up the volume on his speakers until the ringing in his ears is fully drowned out.

He doesn’t speak a word of German, but he knows more or less what the match commentators are going on about. It’s the same routine everywhere despite the obvious differences in the league and the language - this bad call, that bad call, occasionally a familiar name.

“Come on, Raúl,” he mutters to himself, shifting against the uncomfortable cushions. Everything in his place is new, not yet broken in; his own things from Madrid still heaped around in boxes that seem better left unopened. He’s got a meeting with his agent in half an hour across town about something probably important, but right now all Guti wants is for Raúl to hurry it up and put the ball in the fucking net.

_You could try a little patience._

Guti shrugs at this with a small smile because he knows that Raúl has a point. He leans back into the couch and zones out to the hum of unintelligible German and stadium noise, a sincere attempt at patience, when he cracks one eye open. Then the other.

There’s no one else in his house, but that was - that was strange. And unmistakeable. He frowns and scans his unfamiliar living room just in case. Just in case what? Just in case he’s not just hearing things? Just in case this isn’t some weird mindfuck dream? Just in case Raúl isn’t having his Schalke debut in some preseason friendly match in Munich that’s currently being broadcasted live via illegal stream to his laptop here in Istanbul. That maybe Raúl isn’t in Germany at all, that maybe Raúl is -

His line of thought ends there because even before the match commentators on his sketchy web stream start to lose their minds, there’s a feeling of familiar euphoria growing in him. He can almost hear the sound of the crowd swelling, of the ball swishing into the net.

 _What did I tell you?_ In the back of Guti’s head, Raúl sounds like a kid again, wild and elated. Somehow even without knowing exactly what’s going on, Guti understands what this is.

He relaxes back into the couch and smirks at the ceiling. _You should score another, old man._

On his computer screen in pixely low-resolution, Raúl laughs in his new blue kit - _you’re older than me_ \- and Guti feels it reverberate down his spine.  
  
  
  
  
It’s only been a couple of days, but Guti likes Turkey. Likes all of the cars, likes the pace at training, likes that Istanbul could never be mistaken for Madrid, even with his eyes closed and headphones on. What he doesn’t like is coming home from a late run to find that the key to his place doesn’t want to fit in the lock of his door. He’s just beginning to consider breaking into his own house when his phone goes off in his pocket.

“I knew there’d be a second one,” he says, picking up without even looking to see who's calling. He wedges his phone into the crook between his jaw and his neck. Continues to fight with the door, but the key’s stubborn in the lock and won’t turn. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” Raúl says. “It felt… it felt good.”

He sounds a little stilted, more than a little tense despite the win. Guti gives up on getting inside. He leans against the door and takes a moment to weigh his words before deciding, fuck it.

“I know it did."

If he's gone and lost his mind, then fine, he’s lost his mind, no one’s surprised, least of all him. But if he hasn’t, if he can actually hear Raúl in his head and if Raúl can actually hear him, then they probably both should know before this gets too strange.

There’s silence on the other end of the line. Somehow, Guti can tell that Raúl’s pacing.

“Okay,” Raúl says eventually, sounding almost resigned. And then, _You’re alright?_

There it is.

Guti whistles low. It’s a big question, but he knows what Raúl’s getting at. He shrugs and fumbles again with the keys. _Yeah. Are you?_

Raúl laughs and Guti is flooded with relief that probably belongs to both of them. _I’m great,_ Raúl answers and the lock easily turns.  
  
  
  
  
It isn’t an all-the-time sort of thing. Don’t ask him to explain the particulars, but it flickers on and off at what seems like random, intensifying and then gradually fading out. To his complete lack of surprise, Raúl is a steady stream of cool observations and rational judgments. He plays in the back of Guti’s mind, a familiar anchor against the current of so many new things. There’s probably either a real scientific reason to explain why he’s got Raúl's voice stuck in his head so often these days, or something so batshit that he shouldn’t even try to process it. Guti puts his money on the latter.

 _It’s like texting,_ Raúl decides. _Here-there, back-forth, pim-pam._

Guti is driving to training, late and weaving through traffic. The low buzzing in the back his head kicks up again. _Don't start. And you're terrible at texting._

_I’m terrible at this._

_You’re not. You do sometimes get too hung up on whether the towels in the bathroom are folded correctly or some other Type A shit, but then I stop listening._

He can almost feel Raúl’s amusement like a tangible thing to reach out and touch until it shifts into foggy uncertainty. Or something else.

_Have you thought about why this is happening?_

Guti shrugs. He has and he hasn’t. If anything it feels like a continuation of something that’s always been there. It being Raúl’s voice and there being somewhere in Guti’s head, only maybe not exactly like this. And if he has to have some weird pseudo-Star Trek mind meld psychic link thing with someone, it might as well be Raúl. They’ve known each other for so long, there can hardly be any surprises.

Somewhere on a team bus in Germany, Raúl hums in agreement.  
  
  
  
  
It’s on that last point where it turns out they’re very wrong.

Wave after wave of heat and want manifests from out of nowhere and then grows. The sudden force of arousal catches him off guard and by the time he realizes that this has something to do with Raúl - _everything to do with Raúl_ \- he's already thinking about hands a little larger than his own, a familiar voice low in his ear. He shuts that entire train of thought down in its tracks before he ruins everything - he can see the headlines in the papers: Back At It Again! - and shoves one hand down his tracksuit before the bathroom door’s even fully closed, getting off with his right hand instead of his left, a desperately-needed half-assed attempt at pretending that it's someone else. Doesn't matter who.

He comes fast and hot over his fingers in a hotel room the night before some game in some city, chasing something that he refuses to name. And surprise, surprise: it’s nothing like texting.  
  
  
  
  
There are a lot of quality distractions to find in Istanbul.

He starts with clubs, then yachts, and then football. An entire stadium echoing his name. He stays out too late too many nights in a row, fucks up his ankle in training, and falls into bed night after night to toss and turn and stare at the ceiling for what could either be a couple minutes or a couple hours. It doesn't matter. He doesn't want to think about it. Who cares.

_You’ve been quiet._

Guti tries to scowl and rolls over to the other side of the bed to where the sheets are still crisp and cool. Slings an arm over his face because it’s easier than trying to navigate all of this with words.

 _It’s alright._. Guti recognizes the slight change in tone, would respond to it anywhere. Persistent, but assuring, like whatever it is that kicks in his stomach at the sound of it. _It’s alright._

It goes dark on Raúl’s end, thoughts replaced with a warm quietness that Guti assumes to be sleep. He closes his own eyes and floats in it.  
  
  
  
  
Someone nudges him awake before the sun is even up. He grumbles about rude people and drags the blankets of his bed way up over his head. 

_Come on, wake up._

It’s Raúl, sounding bright and even clearer than usual and fuck, Guti hates morning people.

_No you don’t. Now get up._

_Get out of my head. It’s a national holiday._

_What?_ Amusement now.

_National holiday where everyone gets to stay in bed and sleep and not be bothered._

_What?_

_It’s true._

_You should have told me before._

Guti frowns from beneath the covers, fully awake now and suspicious and intrigued. He takes the bait. _Before what?_

_Before I took a flight in the middle of the night and ended up in front of your house. I think this is your house._

There it is. Guti blinks and then rolls out of bed. Grabs the closest article of clothing and then pads through his house to throw open the front door, all only a little faster than usual.

There’s Raúl on the front step, weekend bag slung over his shoulder. He’s wearing a sports jacket and nice shoes. Guti’s in some bathrobe he thinks he might have accidentally swiped ten years back from some hotel in Minsk.

“Hi,” Raúl says happily, like this sort of thing happens all the time. _Were you going to make me break in?_

Guti opens his mouth to reply with something along the lines of “Guten Tag, you asshole, it’s not even six a.m.” but instead lets out a groan and a mumbled “Whatever.” He means for it to come out irritated, but that doesn't happen because he can hear the surprise and relief in his own voice. He’s already forgetting to pretend to be angry.

Raúl's mouth tilts into a small smile, like he knows this and always has. Guti rolls his eyes, mostly out of habit, and opens the door wider.  
  
  
  
  
Raúl likes Germany. Likes the vibe of the stadium, likes all of the small museums in Gelsenkirchen, likes that it’s out of the way.

“You've heard all of it already,” Raúl chuckles, leaning back on the kitchen counter, easy and relaxed like he's been here before. “This must be boring.”

Guti swats a dismissive hand in Raúl's general direction. “You actually got the short end of this stick. I try not to listen to myself.”

Raúl doesn’t immediately say anything at this, but just sort of looks at him, like there's something more to this than just the two of them standing around in Guti's kitchen at some ungodly hour. Like there's something here to figure out.

“I want to try something,” Raúl says evenly, placing his glass down on the counter. “Do you want to?”

Guti's eyes narrow. "I'm not trying veganism."

Raúl laughs but doesn't look away. The question still stands, growing wide between them. Guti sighs, exasperation to mask confusion. 

_Go ahead._

He doesn't know what to expect because he knows Raúl it’s unlike Raúl to say something like that, just like how it’s unlike Raúl to show up at Guti’s door before the sun on a random Monday during international break. And it’s very unlike Raúl to step into Guti’s space and corner him against the kitchen counter, notch their hips together and bring his hands to lay on Guti’s waist, warm and steady through the thin fabric of Guti’s robe.

It’s unlike Raúl, but it happens anyway. 

Guti doesn’t know what to think, doesn’t even remember how. The low humming noise in his ears ceases at the contact, a radio signal finally coming in clear.

Raúl leans into the crook of his neck, breath warm against his skin. “Do you want to?” he says again, persistent but assuring. A continuation of something that’s always been there.

They’re so close that it takes only the slightest tilt of Guti's head to find Raúl’s mouth, no thinking needed. Raúl kisses him back slowly, deliberately, like they have all of the time in the world, but Guti is impatient - _always impatient,_ although which one of them thinks this, he doesn’t know - and pours everything into it, spurred on by the curve of Raúl’s smile. It goes on like that, slow and then fast, until Raúl pulls back slightly and drops a hand from his waist.

 _Wanted this,_ Guti thinks, hazy.

He has no idea his own face looks like, but Raúl’s expression is dark and sharp, eyes fixed on Guti's face like there's something there to memorize. 

Raul shakes his head without looking away. “I want to hear you,” he says, low and with thought, and Guti’s stomach drops.

He doesn't know what he says (" _Come on, old man._ "), but Raul laughs and only stops when Guti drops to his knees.

  
  
  
  
The sun rises later on. Guti rolls half-asleep across the bed into Raúl’s space so that they're tangled together, and stays there.


End file.
